Triptych
by Laiqualaurelote
Summary: Triptych: a set of three images that tell a story. Deals with the arc of Jack and Ann's relationship before, during, and after their adventure.
1. Inspiration

**Triptych**

Author's Note: A triptych is a set of three pictures that somehow associate together to tell a story. This triptych-like arc focuses on the start, middle and aftermath of the relationship of Jack Driscoll and Ann Darrow, my latest pairing obsession.

I do not own. I merely write.

**1. Inspiration**

Jack's hooked, and he knows it.

He's never thought something could replace writing for the theatre in his obsessions, but it has.

Vividly he remembers the previous scene. He'd finished with the script for the latest scenes, and he'd wandered up onto the deck looking for Carl. They were filming at the prow of the ship. He'd gone over to deliver the pages.

He had caught up with Carl and the camera, when the sight struck him – and there was Ann, silhouetted against a flaming sky of red and wine, her dress glittering in the setting sun, the wind playing havoc with her curls. And her expression – the tears staining her beautiful face, the desperation in her movement, the sorrow in her eyes.

It's the way she can take his dialogue, his words, and make it her own. But even more so, it's in the way she can carry an entire scene empty of his dialogue, act it without speaking a word, and drive the whole film crew to tears.

He's never seen anyone act sad like Ann Darrow.

He shuts his eyes and keeps the image in his brain, the memory of how her gaze, with its unspoken tragedy, turned from the distant horizon, swept the deck, and then, haltingly, met his. And moved no further.

It's her eyes. They are eyes that need no script. They are eyes that can break a man's heart.

And they looked into his, and there was nothing but her, her and sunset all around.

Carl broke the spell, because it was interfering with his filming. Jack was suddenly aware of how the entire film crew was staring at him, and he fled the deck, fled down to his dark little enclosure in the ship's hold where he could be alone with the memories.

He sees her face before him now as he types, her face swimming with tears, staining her cheeks like sunsets stain ice. He sees her eyes of grief, and with the rhythm of his fingers the words come quick and easy, flowing into the form of a script, his play for her, because words are the only thing he can give.

But it's so much more than the words.


	2. Moment

**Triptych**

**2. Moment**

And somehow he can't help the overwhelming feeling that it's all worth it, when he comes round the rock and sees her curled up like a child in the crook of the beast's arm.

He can still remember the horror of the deaths, the terrible snap of Hayes' body on the cliff wall, the still face of Choy amidst the black grit. But somehow he knows that they could never risk too much, not for her, not for Ann.

Jack tiptoes forward, every footstep a knell in his ears. He cannot be too careful. Everything rests on the balance of this moment, this one precious moment.

Outside the night is filled with the shrieking of the bat-creatures and the snoring of the ape. But in his head the silence is heavier than the sea, pressing down on him, so that he can hear nothing but the dreadful loudness of his whisper.

He says it again, slightly louder. "Ann!"

And then she stirs, and he freezes. Her eyelids move, draw back, and her eyes are alight in the moonlight – first disbelief, then wonder, and then dawning relief. Relief fills him as well, and he is surprised at how he hasn't been breathing all this while.

He's no hero, he's but a playwright, but for her he could be, would be anything.

He reaches out a hand, his fingers aching to touch her, to know that she's real. She reciprocates, stretching out to him, like a child pleading to be taken home.

One moment, and they are stretching across an impossible chasm, reaching out across boundaries, through dangerous waters, striving to touch.

One moment for them to connect, to come together again, one moment when she's all that matters, one moment before the beast wakes and breaks it all.

They only had that one moment.


	3. Belief

**Triptych**

**3. Belief**

So it's the aftermath, and he'd like to believe that despite whatever happened, theirs was a happily ever after.

For him it is. Now he has a channel for all the love in his life, his love for writing, his love for the theatre – and above all his love for Ann. She is his muse, and every play he writes, he writes for her. To see her with the stage lights touching her beautiful features, to hear her voice speak his words – _his_ words – there is nothing that could make him happier.

But he knows it can never be a happy ending for her.

In the daylight she is happy, acting and dancing and doing vaudeville and theatre and everything she's ever wanted to do. But in the darkness of the night, the darkness that is no different from those primeval darknesses of terror back on the island, sometimes she wakes screaming from nightmares of unspoken horror, dreams in which she relives those dreadful days of sacrifice and capture – or even worse, the Fall.

Then he tries to soothe her fears, pressing her cold shivering body against him, stroking her damp hair, whispering assurances in her ears, until her sobs die away and her limbs cease their quivering. But he knows that in this tragedy that the night revives in her, he has no part – he is but a bystander, who but watched the trauma she experienced from the sidelines. He knows that when King Kong fell, he took part of her with him, something irreplaceable by any other love in her life. Sometimes, in those dark nights, he sees the huge face of the ape, mocking his helplessness.

Ann Darrow is a woman haunted, and there is nothing Jack Driscoll can do about it.

After her performance, he seeks her out in the dressing room backstage, where she is unpinning the heavy costume earrings from her earlobes. She smiles when his reflection appears in her mirror, and leans back into him when he comes up behind her chair.

"You were wonderful tonight," he tells her, even though she is wonderful every night, and she knows it.

"Flatterer," she laughs, and rises from the chair to face him.

"Ann," he says, suddenly serious. "Do you love me?"

The laughter is wiped from her face, replaced by a concern that makes him regret the question. "Of course I love you. Why do you ask?"

He shakes his head wistfully. "Nothing. It's just nice to hear."

She throws her arms around his neck and kisses him. "Then I'll say it again. I love you, Jack Driscoll. Will that do?"

He can't help returning her smile. "It'll do," he says, and kisses her back.

He believes her.

**End. **


End file.
